


The Fading Sun

by achievingelysium_archive (achievingelysium)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Archived from FFN, Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achievingelysium/pseuds/achievingelysium_archive
Summary: "Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Octavian. For a while, the young boy was happy. He was well on his way to a bright future. He had a loving family. He was Octavian, the legacy of Apollo. He had dreams of glory and power... He. Was. Foolish. For he, like his namesake, forgot that all good things must come to a end."Written for Evil? Challenge and Competition.





	The Fading Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on FFN, and is being archived on AO3. General disclaimer: my old writing does not always reflect my current opinions or skills.
> 
> Originally written on: Jul 9, 2013.  
> To be backdated.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Notes:  
> Written for The Inked Pen's Evil? Challenge and Competition.
> 
> Character: Octavian
> 
> Prompt: End
> 
> Quote: "I don't want to be alone. I want to be left alone." -Audrey Hepburn
> 
> Song: Apologize by OneRepublic

_Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Octavian. For a while, the young boy was happy. He was well on his way to a bright future. He had a loving family. He was Octavian, the legacy of Apollo. He had dreams of glory and power. Of someone he could be, a powerful young man in the limelight. He. Was. Foolish. For he, like his namesake, forgot that all good things must come to an end..._

_And that dreams come with a price._

_Hope is a waking dream, as Aristotle said. But his dreams became nightmares._

_And his hope faded to nothing._

* * *

_The sun. It is glorious and beautiful like no one has known ever. It is a beacon..._

_of hope, of light, of glory._

_It shines proud through day, giving warmth to those who need it, reaching all corners of the world._

_It is a promise_

_of tommorow, of a new day, and a new dawn._

_/ But dawn goes down with the day,_

_Nothing gold can stay. /_

* * *

**Honestly? Octavian loved his family.** He just didn't like to show it.

Octavian Augustus Caesar (Funny name, he knew) was born on October 21st of 1997, and at the time he was, oh, maybe nine or ten years old. His mother was Miss Janice Caesar, whose husband had run off like his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Apollo, had done to his great times eight grandmother. As of the moment, he was arguing on with his mother on the fact that Octavian had, well, no social life. According to his mother, anyway. Octavian couldn't care either way. He knew he was destined for great things, better things than playing idiotic _baseball_ or the oh-so-magical Wee or whatever. Wii! That was what it was called.

Octavian reminded himself of all this as he and his mother argued in the doorway of their home. His little sister, Sara, was quietly watching, hidden by the stairs. He decided not to voice this fact though, wincing as Mother yelled at him, arms flailing.

"Octavian! I want the _best_ for you! I want you to have friends, to enjoy life, loosen up a bit! You're my only son, Octavian. My oldest of my two daughters, Sara and Jocelyn. You _are_ destined for great things, Octavian." She paused here and put her hands on his shoulders, making him stare into the deep, startling grey eyes of hers, where a storm brewed and a sea howled. "I _love_ you, Octavian. I just want you to have someone to lean on when... when no one else is there."

Her voice had lowered into a whisper. His resolve had lowered into almost nothing.

He spoke, softly,"I know, Mother. And I'm sorry. I love you more than you could _imagine."_

He really did. But still, he was determined to win this fight. He had a way with words that could get him places, and he was proud of that. His mother's eyes held sadness, sincerity, and maybe the teeniest speckle of pride.

He looked her in the eye like she had. He knew what would win this fight.

"Mother," he began. He would quote her favorite actress, Audrey Hepburn, from _Roman Holiday._ "I don't want to be alone. I want to be _left_ alone."

With that, he left. He left to be alone because no one would leave him alone.

* * *

**His mother had agreed with him, finally, and he watched and observed things from afar.** It was October of the same year as The Argument, and as an early birthday present, his mother was taking him to a seer. Octavian knew what he wanted. He wanted to be _powerful._ He was going to be a true Roman-a warrior with wits, strength, and bravery. Or even better, if he could manage-no, when he would manage to make it to New Rome, he would be someone high up.

The idea of being an augur hit him as they drove to... wherever in the back seat of the car.

Why not?

It was perfectly reasonable. He'd always had strange, prophetic dreams, and he was a legacy of Apollo. Being the augur would give him power- _he_ would declare the prophecies, _he_ would speak in front of crowds, _he_ would be in the council, _he_ would have anything he wanted, as well as his family.

Why not?

A hour and a half of pondering later, two figures stepped out of a car, heading to a small temple to his grandfather in... Well, he hadn't paid attention. Carefully balancing a basket of sacrifices in one hand, he made his way up the slow and treacherous winding path to the top. Sweat poured down his face when he finally stopped before the steps. By the gods, couldn't they have been considerate of the poor people who had to trek up the hill? It would've been _so_ much easier with an elevator. He could see it-an elevator system built in the hill, walking in and pressing: Floor - Temple. But nooo, they didn't even provide a railing on the- He stopped thinking as the sun came out. Sunlight hit a miniature gold sun and reflected through the grounds. He slowly raised his hand to touch the light, watching, fascinated, as his hands were bathed in shades of yellow and gold. He set the offerings down, a basket full of plants, vegetables, fine wines, cheeses, meat, grain, bread, and more, at the feet of the statue of Apollo. His eyes never left the sun.

The sunlight on the floor shimmered.

The temple was beautiful. Made of stone and gold so bright it illuminated the hill, it was a huge place, unlike anywhere Octavian had been. Sacrifices were made, and wisps of smoke drifted lazily through the air. Golden ornaments decorated the walls, and mosaics depicted the story of Apollo. In the middle, there were four pillars, with no walls. Between them were silk drapes, fluttering through the wind. He could make out the outline of a figure sitting stone-still on a chair. People would approach, offer, then ask, and the stone-still person would say something to the seeker, and they would leave. Suddenly, his stomach was a pit of nervousness.

He focused on light and followed the shimmering floors.

He set down a small pouch of gold coins. A priest hiding in curtains picked it up.

The priest said,"Ask," before disappearing back into the curtains.

He looked at the figure. It was a girl, he noted, with fiery red hair, dressed in a toga. There was a laurel wreath on her head.

"What am I destined for?"

The girl did not speak. She turned her face to the sky, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue, staring as a flock of birds soared above the temple.

Finally, she looked back at him. He felt uncomfortable, as if the girl could see through his soul.

"You are destined to become a man of great power. Your gift of tongue will serve you well. People will respect and fear you as you have dreamed, Octavian Augustus."

She paused here. A wide smile broke out on his face. He would succeed. His family would be rich, respected, and well-known. They would be _happy._ The girl bowed her head and closed her eyes. He turned and left, lifting a curtain to walk out.

"But be warned, Octavian Augustus," a whisper rang through the air.

He froze and turned back. Unsettling blue eyes bore into his.

"For no gift is without a price. And no dream is without end."

On the way back, he was haunted by a pair of ominous eyes and the words _Without end..._ echoing in his mind.

* * *

**He was made Augur's Apprentice on January 23, on the year after he'd visited the seer.** Which he was excited about. All doubt had faded from his mind, and he studied hard. His two gifts, the Gift of Sight and the Gift of Tongue were identified immediately by his half-sibling/cousin/whoever Jay. Jay had been a member of the legion for 5 years, with the letters SPQR, a lyre, and 5 lines tattooed permanently on his arm. He wondered if it burned.

Soon, he was made a member of the legion at the age of twelve. Every day at sunrise, he went to his grandfather's (The greats took too much time to think of, so he just referred to Apollo as his grandfather.) temple, and Jay showed him what they were meant to do: follow the path of birds sent by the gods. Studying their pattern of flight, direction, and everything else determined the gods' will. They would sacrifice the entrails of birds and sketch drawings of flocks. They were close, close enough to be called brothers.

"So, Tavian, what's up?"

"Jupiter. What am I, an idiot?"

"Correct! You are an idiot, Octavian. Remember when we had a food fight, and someone brought food coloring? You were rainbow for days!"

"Yeah, but remember when Joey pulled a prank on you? He turned your toga pink _and_ made your skin turn green."

"I hated that week."

"I loved that week! I still have the video!"

"We're going to have to fix that, Octavian."

The two boys joked around as they set up targets. Octavian was happy in the legion- training, having fun, reading the auguries... He'd never felt so alive.

Breathing in, he focused on the target. The line was taut as he drew back. _Twang!_ The arrow released it's grip on the bow, and his shot went true. His arrow hit the bulls-eye, as did Jay's. He smiled.

Five weeks later, Jay disappeared. He was distraught. Dreams kept him up at night. Visions haunted him during the day. Without Jay to help him get through it, he was overcome with burden. He ate less and less. Dark rings hung under his eyes. The legion went crazy searching for Jay. The praetors declared Octavian to be temporary augur, and if Jay didn't show in a month's time, he would be given the official title as augur.

The first week passed. His visions grew more frequent, flashes of confusing details.

The second week went and gone.

The third week flew by. His dreams were a bit better.

One month was up. Jay was declared dead.

On March 3, he walked home to see a note on his desk.

_I'm sorry_

was written in familiar handwriting. He dropped it in the fire.

"Don't be," he said to no one. "It's too late to apologize, _Jay._ "

* * *

**Octavian heard the war horn blow.** With a speed fast enough to rival that of Mercury's, he scaled the wall and drew his bow and quiver. He aimed an arrow.

"FIRE!"

Arrows flew from the wall, but a shield of flame appeared in front of the attackers. The arrows burned. They began to cross the river.

"For Rome!" He shouted, and notched and shot arrow after arrow into the crowd.

Responding arrows flew back towards them, distracting the archers, giving time for the army to rip through the door. Yells sounded across the battlefield. What was once a beautiful New Rome lay in ruins. The Roman cavalry teams were dispatched as easily as throwing a rag doll off. The First, Second, and Third Cohorts attacked and failed. Another group of enemies ran in behind the fighting wars, heading for the city. His view was blocked by a burly warrior who wore no armor. He charged. Octavian darted to the side. The narrow archer's wall was only about ten feet wide, meaning they had little space before plunging to their deaths. A fist to his face made him stumble. The warrior charged, and Octavian stood, frozen with terror. Time slowed down. He watched as the enemy came closer and closer, a look of pure hatred etched on his face. Then, _twang._ The familiar sound of an arrow jolted him out of the shock. He looked up to see an arrow sticking out of the front of his enemy. A rose of blood bloomed bright on his chest. The boy put his hand to his chest, staining it red. He held it out, upwards, as he fell to the ground, like he was making a promise.

"Remember me," he managed to whisper. "I am a graecus."

Octavian was, so to speak, horrified. The _gracei_ were the Greeks, an old enemy of the Romans. They warred, fought, destroyed. To Romans, a Greek stood out. A weak soldier. Fighting alone was bad. It would get you killed. A destroyer of innocence. A warning of impending doom.

With that, the anonymous face died in front of him.

Still overcome with horror, fear, and shock, he looked over his home. He didn't live in New Rome, prior to contrary belief. He lived in a small Roman fort, a sort of pre-training grounds for the Twelfth Legion. He had come back for a family visit. Just before the attack, he'd been conversing with a few archers about the best kind of magical arrow, whether it be a sonic arrow or an exploding one.

Suddenly, there was a turning tide.

The praetors gained control. The Cohorts revitalized their defenses. _Gracei_ fell, left and right, as pilums entered their bodies.

The blood of warring sides stained the dark soil. The earth rumbled, as if waking from a long sleep, before settling. Cracks rippled through the ground. His eyes strained to see anything in the dim light. A faint, bitter laugh arose from the ground itself, and he heard an almost unintelligible woman's voice, saying, _"Fight, my children."_

And then he was back at Fort Jupiter. The blood, voice, and earth had been a vision. But the fight was real.

Then- **BOOM!**

Something green exploded at the edge of his sight.

 **BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!** came again and again.

The Greeks were defeated, but they had died leaving them a gift. **BOOM!**

Green, unnatural fire flickered around the city. Screams rose from the Roman army, weapons still drawn and covered in blood of the damned, as the city was destroyed.

Green swept through the streets, over houses, creating smoke that hung in the air, an impending symbol of destruction. All of the archers got to the ground as fast as they could.

His vision, his Gift, tunneled, and he saw two people pounding against a hard glass window.

"Octavian!" Sara screamed. "Help!"

Her hands were red and black, covered with burns and soot. His mother was cradling a body in her lap. Their eyes shone. Jocelyn coughed weakly, her body trying hard to live, to _breathe,_ to take in the air...

"SARA! SARA, I'M COMING!"

He let go of all Roman rules, of hiding feelings and emotions. Arms held him back. Dawn Evings, centurion of his "Cohort," kept him from running. There was a gaping pit in his mind that he was falling into, a pit with enough darkness to match that of hell.

"Let-me- _go_ _!_ " He protested. "You bitch! You traitor! That's my _family_ in there, _dying._ "

"Octavian, it's too _late._ "

Her words held despair. She had given up.

"No, _no._ It's _not._ _Your_ family is in there, your friends, your _people._ Please. Help me," he begged. " _Please._ "

His voice broke on the last word.

He was sobbing now, fighting, crying, letting out his despair and helplessness as his home burned. Others did the same, yelling and running, arms outstretched in vain hope. There was no stopping them now.

He ran, ran, ran, until his legs could run no more, 'til his lungs burned and his heart cried.

He kept going.

Stone fell all around him. Shingles burned. Rusty gates lay disassembled on the ground. Mailboxes, yards, roads, fences, houses, everything that had been there was destroyed into oblivion.

After what seemed like forever, he found the lot he had once called _home._ Their yard was gone. The apple trees that his sisters had once tended so carefully and gently stood bare, black and white, scratched inwardly, like skeletons made of branches. His house was in ruins. Only half had survived, standing lone. The staircase was gone. Doors were off hinges. The furniture was charred. Walls were bathed in streaks of black, as if he had wiped his hand in black ash and let his hand drift alongside the paneling. His eyes raked frantically through the rubble. _Where are you?_ he asked silently.

"Sara?" he called.

"-ter! 'Tavian, the-" Her voice faded, then grew stronger again. "-shelter. The underground shelter! Octavian!"

He understood.

The underground shelter was what every house in the city had. An underground tunnel connected to the house, it served the purpose of letting families hide when there was danger, like a fire or an invasion. Only the people of the house knew where it was, so no one could find each other's. Theirs was located in the back of the house, near the kitchen, hidden underneath a plank. He barreled through the house, kneeling next to a chair. There was a huge piece of debris covering it. That was why he'd seen them pounding against the ceiling window. They had been trying to escape. In each shelter, there was a ceiling window made of glass, then covered with a layer of soil as to hide it. His hands raked at the solid wooden plank. There were enchantments so the plank wouldn't burn in a fire, which was good. He yelled until his voice was hoarse and his fingers were raw and bleeding, leaving red lines on the floor. There was a creak. Something broke from above him, and he froze as a chunk of railing hit him. He cried out and kept clawing at the ground. He shoved his injured shoulder into a snug crook on the debris and _shoved._ Red hot pain shot up in tendrils through the limb. He shoved again. It moved. One inch. Two. Three. Four... He moved it until it was off completely, and black spots danced in his vision. He shook his head and plunged in.

Dust formed a cloud around him as he landed, limb after limb after limb.

"S-"

The name faded on his lips when a man looked up and shook his head. He was kneeling next to a young girl with chestnut hair streaked with black. He knew immediately that if she opened her closed eyes, they would be a blue the color of the sky. He stumbles and drops to his knees next to her. He looks at the man who looks so much like him, blonde hair and blue eyes with pale skin. Apollo's hand is on her forehead. He reaches for Lyn's still, motionless hand and enfolds it within his own, bigger ones. Blue eyes met blue eyes. Tears dripped down the side of his face onto the cold floor. He'd been too late. If he had been here any earlier... His mother hugged him, rocking him back and forth. Then she collapsed in a heap. The silence was deafening, a quiet, but he knew it was only the calm before the storm. The storm began. Yells sounded outside, Octavian noted through a haze. He let go, and Sara crawled on all fours to his outstretched arms. Apollo joined them. They stayed there, he, Apollo and Sara, together until healers came with oxygen masks and gloves, machines and IV drips.

Janice Regina Caesar and Jocelyn Aggie Caesar died in the hospital in beds next to each other five days later, wrapped in golden shrouds covering the pain and grief that had settled on them.

He lit a torch two days after that.

He let it fall from his hands as did his sister next to him. Golden smoke wafted upwards, and he watched it bright against the night sky.

A shaky hand reached out as if he could drag the spirits of the Underworld to the land of the living.

The tiniest seed of hatred had been planted inside his mind.

* * *

**He held the cigarette in his hands.** Rolling it around in his fingers, he contemplated the pros and cons. He was walking on a tightrope between life and death. It hung in the air, the rope his life, the fall -into what, he didn't know- his death. The more killthroats he lit, the more he wobbled on that tightrope. It was a metaphor, he knew. To hold a killing thing in his hands but not giving it the power _to_ kill. But then again, what did it matter? Another few years closer to death made no difference to Octavian.

He lit it.

Sparking his lighter and holding it to the cigarette butt that now dangled out of his lips, he took in the first drag.

The familiar feeling ran through his lungs. He puffed out smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke. There seemed to be smoke everywhere nowadays, all standing for different things. He held it between his fingers to let out a bitter laugh before clamping down on it firmly. He was doing his best to enjoy himself as he drove along San Francisco Bay. "Cruise" or whatever the song was called, played, and he let out his admittedly horrible talent singing. Funny, he should've been _good_ at music, but he was terrible at all things music. Excluding the flute. But that was it. He had zilch music ability. Driving at fourteen _probably_ wasn't the _best_ choice he'd ever made, but then again, this was San Francisco. No one really cared. He'd done worse.

He tried to ignore the radio since it now blared out Demi Lovato. Not that he had anything against her music, but he didn't like "Heart Attack." Instead choosing to focus on the glittering water, he watched as wave after wave settled on the beach. He parked at the side of the road and hopped out. On free days like this one, he would go to the beach. The Romans feared Lord Neptune because the sea was wild and unimaginable, nothing but a danger and unpredictable odds. Sure, Octavian was edgy around the waters. But this was the only place where he "wouldn't be alone, but he would be _left_ alone." The old Ford pickup was a battered baby blue car that had been around since... Who knew? It was old, rusty, and it puffed out smoke to the sky like he did. After the attack, all of Fort Jupiter, the place to go before Camp Jupiter, had just been sent off to Camp, pre-trained or not. Octavian, of course, had achieved rank as _centurion_ of _First_ Cohort, not like that idiot Dakota had with Fifth Cohort. He was still augur, too, as they'd named him when Jay backed out and ran off. His former brother's name carved a hole in his heart. He missed the older boy, his jokes and pranks, his loud laughter and enthusiasm, his serious tones and the way his face changed, turned into something soft when they talked auguries. His older brother had _loved_ the Sight, the Gift, he knew. He took another drag and tried to forget about missing Jay.

Gulls circled overhead, and "watch birds," as the Roman eagles were called for what they did best, which was watching and reporting information, settled themselves as to not arouse mortal suspicion.

Octavian sighed. He needed coffee.

Roland had been Octavian's mortal coffee server for two years. He knew what Octavian would want when in a bleak mood. Spying Octavian's face and the cig, he grabbed a cup and began coffee-making for his friend as he sat down.

Octavian's face brightened at the smell of coffee. He muttered his thanks as Roland set down pure black coffee in front of him. He slapped down a five on the counter and sipped at the bitter caffeine. Roland slid it to Emily, the cash register operator, who slid change to Roland, who dropped it in front of Octavian as he wiped the counter. He pocketed the change and downed the last sip of coffee.

He threw a "Thanks, you two," over his shoulder as he walked out.

All was well. Another time of blissful calm, and Octavian was determined to enjoy every second of it.

* * *

**He didn't know when sacrificing teddy bear entrails had started. Really.** But somehow, everyone, including Optimus Maximus Jupiter (nicknamed "Optimus Prime" behind his back,) had decided that bird entrails were too messy, hard, and disgusting. (It wasn't _them_ who were doing the sacrifices, thank you very much.) The decision was fine by him. No more mess.

But they just _had_ to decide on _teddy_ bears, didn't they?

He looked like an idiot. It didn't help as more came in.

But then he pretended that each teddy bear was a _graecus._ He pretended each teddy bear had a face of whom he hated, like those _newbies,_ Jason Grace and Reyna Onal. He pretended he was ripping them apart, limb by limb. (Which was only partially true, as he was cutting them up and sacrificing entrails. Close enough.)

That made him feel better.

He had _power._ Raw, building _power_ that put him in a high position.

Nowadays, Octavian lived in the First Cohort, serving the praetors and watching the auguries. He tended to keep to himself, a mystery and an enigma to people. Closing up made him look powerful, in his toga and with an aura of mystery, a boy with an unknown past and a solid future. He liked that. He intimidated people. His words persuaded people, invoked people to agree on his opinion, a respected member of the council.

His seed of hatred had rooted itself firmly in his mind.

Darker visions came to him. They were twisted, crude versions, still the truth, but the bad kind of truth. He saw wars and darker times now, set in the future like the prophecy in stone. He saw flashes of battles, giants, towering gods, blood, a flying trireme, the words _The Argo II_ , the Empire State building, blue lightning around it, a boy with solid gold eyes, Titans on Mount Tam.

But what haunted him the most were the girl, her supposed boyfriend, and the girl's mother.

It had started in one of his demigod/Sight dreams while he slept. A girl, looking to be around fourteen or fifteen, struggled to hold the sky. _Mount Tam._ Then, a young girl around twelve, dressed in silver, took the world from her. He was startled to notice it was Diana, the goddess of the moon, wild, and hunt. It sped up to where a boy with ink black hair and green eyes took it from Diana. Then it sped up again, and he saw the girl appear again, this time at a bus station. A goddess who appeared argued with her, then pressed a coin into the girl's hand. He could see her clearly now, with blonde curls and grey eyes. She looked tired and weary. Though Octavian was far away, he heard Athena speak.

"Follow the Mark of Athena. _Avenge me._ "

That scared him. The Mark of Athena was an old story, passed down through generations. Athena, in Greece, had been the goddess of war, arts and crafts, and wisdom. She was powerful and well-respected. Athens had been named after her, even. When in her Roman form, Minerva, she was a maiden, and less respected, being the goddess of crafts. That had made her loathe the Romans, punishing them. The Athena Parthenos had been the last straw. They had almost lost her to the Greek side forever, had Jupiter not ordered her to stay. The Athena Parthenos, a famous statue of Athena, had been stolen from the Greeks by the Romans, and in turn had been stolen from the Romans by someone who had kept a low profile. Whoever had stolen it was _good_ , because no one had seen it in centuries. In each generation of Athenians, Athena chose the best, the most worthy, and sent them on a quest to follow the Mark of Athena and find the statue. He guessed the daughter had been upset about something, and that Athena had appeared to send her on the quest.

Then, he saw the boy again. He couldn't see much, but he watched as they were dragged to the edge of the pit. He didn't know if she had completed the quest, because he could see literally nothing. The two fell over the edge. It was a pit of pure hatred, and he could see them sliding into it. They fell into nothingness.

The last thing he saw before waking up was their terrified faces.

* * *

**He turned at the hesitant footsteps.** A wind whispered in his ear, _The graecus has arrived._ It could also be interpreted as _The goose has cried,_ because the voices were hard to decipher, and there was indeed a goose in the temple somewhere. It had run off not wanting to be sacrificed.

With a jolt, he realized the _graecus_ was the boy of his prophetic dreams. He smoothed his face over to a more impassive face.

They conversed.

Octavian cut up a Pillow Pet.

The boy, Percy Jackson, was found to be a son of Neptune.

He was to join the Fifth Cohort. Enemies all went in the Fifth. Octavian was going to rub it in the newbie's face that he had no letters of recommendation. Octavian had been placed in the First Cohort when he'd arrived. _His_ family had been in Camp Jupiter's records for more than a century. He'd had his letters.

They left.

Octavian was going to use him to get to the position of praetor. New Rome needed a _new_ praetor, a strong one that could help the camp, not like Reyna, his _future_ partner. This was his perfect chance.

 _Kill the Greeks,_ a voice sounded around him. He recognized the voice from his vision at Fort Jupiter. He could now see a woman's face, her eyes closed, smiling. _You know you want to. Join me, Octavian. I am the mother of all, Terra, the earth itself. Am I not powerful? What will the gods give you? A name, a title?_ I _can give you what you want. I can give you what you've been dreaming of for years. Join me._

He contemplated this information. He could see it, sure as the Siren's Song, him praetor, his family behind him, a strong Roman empire, the Greeks crushed. But still something nagged. _No!_ an inner voice cried. _Terra is dangerous. She will surely dispose of you, use you as a ladder to climb to her goal, crush your dreams, Octavian. Don't._

He opened his mouth to say,"No," but the word froze on his lips.

Standing in front of him were his mother and Lyn. He trembled and reached out a hand. Lyn did, too, and they tried to fit their palms up to each other, tears in their eyes. His hand passed through her pale, ghostly figure. Water threatened to overflow.

 _I can bring them back,_ Terra hummed. _I can send their souls through the doors, like your friend Gwendlyn. I spurred you to kill her for an example. She should have died. But she lived, did she not?_

For once, Octavian didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

His family disappeared, and this time, he did cry out. A wave of emotions rushed over him-pain, sadness, hatred, and hope.

 _Join me. There will be a new era. The Era of Rome. Rome will prevail, thrive, and there will be none of those silly_ graecus. _Join me, Octavian._

He thought of Lyn and his mother.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

As Aristotle once said, _Hope is a waking dream._

* * *

**"I hope it hurt," he muttered.** He smiled at the new praetor.

It was fake, of course. He had plotted the downfall of Percy Jackson and the Greeks, as well as the old praetor, Jason Grace.

Then, _he_ would be the new praetor.

He had chosen his target. Whoever the commander of the Argo II was would be the possessor of the first eidolon. Jason and Percy would be the next. It was going to be a clean ordeal. Terra had promised the eidolons freedom. He just had the tasks of releasing them.

Hesitantly, he climbed on board of the Argo II. He played the distrusting Roman.

When Leo's back was turned, he whispered, _Now,_ to the first eidolon. _Fire on Rome._ Leo controlled the ballista, and he sent a cannonball at his home. Though it was necessary, it still made him uneasy when Rome crashed down. This was his home, as it had been since he was twelve, and living here for six years sure could get someone attached. His heart beat painfully each time a cannonball was fired.

Next was to play the frightened, Leo-fired-on-my-home Roman.

Sliding down the rope, he stayed at the bottom screaming bloody murder. He was yanked off and thrown into the crowd as the ship took off.

Then he blacked out.

* * *

**Octavian wept at the Doors of Death.** He had failed Rome. He had failed his friends. He had failed his _family._ There was nothing left but his title.

Octavian would be the augur until he died.

Everyone saw him as someone who provided prophecies. They looked down on him. He was the crazy maniac, the Greek-hater, the descendant of Apollo. He was a pawn of the gods and a pawn of Terra's. He had been manipulated and pushed around, a scared boy who had wanted the best for Rome.

And he really did.

He'd thought he could save Rome. He didn't want what happened to him to happen to anyone else.

But what could _he_ do? He was just a nobody.

 _Hope is a waking dream,_ The optimistic side of his brain reminded him.

 _Fuck you,_ he replied, _My dreams are nightmares._ _My hope is nothing. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul? My thing with feathers is so small, it can't even fly._

* * *

**An old, frail hand reached for a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen.** Octavian was seventy-two. He had no kids. He was better respected, the wise old man who gave advice freely. He'd seen wars, gained scars of his own, and watched his younger sister grow and have kids, sent recommendation letters and stood in the council. He'd lost and gained. He was well known amongst Romans and Greeks alike. People came to him because he could relate, to gain and loss, to darkness and hope, to betrayal and pain, to dreams and nightmares. He did his duty as the gods depicted. He was more wise now, knowing and making choices that benefited many.

But still some despised him.

For they knew of his ways and his actions, and they did not forgive him.

No one knew his story.

No one knew his tragic past, the loss of a family, his hatred, his pain.

He _had_ to tell someone, even if it was just writing it down on paper. Maybe someone would find it someday, learn to not make the same mistakes he had, just like his namesake had.

Shaking letters began on the paper.

_The sun. It is glorious and beautiful like no one has known ever. It is a beacon..._

_of hope, of light, of glory._

_It shines proud through day, giving warmth to those who need it, reaching all corners of the world._

_It is a promise_

_of tommorow, of a new day, and a new dawn._

_/ But dawn goes down with the day,_

_Nothing gold can stay. /_

* * *

Then, he began his story.

_Once upon a time, there was a young boy named Octavian. For a while, the young boy was happy. He was well on his way to a bright future. He had a loving family. He was Octavian, the legacy of Apollo. He had dreams of glory and power. Of someone he could be, a powerful young man in the limelight. He. Was. Foolish. For he, like his namesake, forgot that all good things must come to an end..._

_And that dreams come with a price._

_Hope is a waking dream, as Aristotle said. But his dreams became nightmares._

_And his hope faded to nothing._

**Author's Note:**

> yo when i was like 12 i thought this fic was the SHIT LMAOOO
> 
> This fic was originally posted on FFN, and is being archived on AO3. General disclaimer: my old writing does not always reflect my current opinions or skills.
> 
> Originally written on: Jul 9, 2013.  
> To be backdated.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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